Bad Wolf
by Sir-Mercutio-McHuffer
Summary: Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? You should be.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **I really don't know where this fic is going to go. Well, okay, I have half an idea, but not really. This was written late at night after (starting) writing a report on dietary nutrition and metabolism of sea monkeys, while listening to 'Watch It Burn' by Camo & Krooked on repeat.

I like exploring characters and their development by putting them in situations where they are forced out of their 'normal' zone, and so their normal actions. My fics are usually an exploration of that, and this is no exception. This isn't a 'Rose rejoins the Doctor as she was' fic. This is a 'Rose has had a life and has grown and changed as a person through necessity of the situations she has found herself in, and THEN rejoins the Doctor' fic. More on those situations later.

Rated M for swearing, violence, and Jack.

I don't own anything. Not a thing. I would love to, though. And if I did, it would all be so different.

This is fresh-off-my-brain and un-beta'd.

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_Too much light in this window, don't wake me up_  
_Only coffee no sugar, inside my cup_  
_If I wake and you're here still, give me a kiss_  
_I wasn't finished dreaming, about your lips_

* * *

Feet stirred dust long untouched by humans. Breath rasped through chapped and broken lips. The stump that had been her lower arm throbbed in time to each frantic heart beat. Her impromptu tourniquet – her old leather belt – had staunched the bleeding but nothing could be done for the pain. She was still leaving a lovely trail for them to track her with.

_Follow the bloody red road_, her brain supplied. She bared her teeth without humour. It wasn't like she would be able to hide herself on this God-forsaken spit of land. There was nothing but dirt and sand for miles, and her pursuers were too close behind for her to bury herself.

A bullet whizzed past her head, embedding itself into the ground to her right. They'd finally figured out how to use her Beretta 9mm. She pushed her legs to work harder, darting left and right. It would slow her down a bit, but in the event of them being a better shot than she expected, it might mean missing a head shot.

She didn't know if she could survive a head shot. She _really_ didn't want to find out now.

Everything about the last week had been dumb bloody mistake after dumb bloody mistake. All of them had been avoidable fuck ups, and her only excuse was exhaustion. She had been running for longer than she could remember and, thinking she'd found a deserted bunker, she'd knuckled down for a few days of peace and quiet and blessed _rest_.

Rose had come to less than thirty minutes ago, restrained spread-eagled on the table in the middle of the bunker. Her ankles and wrists were firmly strapped down. They must have poured gas through the vent shafts and broken in – the door had been smashed in and was in pieces on the floor. There were only three of them in the room. Teenagers, really. Dirty, desperate, vicious, and ruffling through her supplies.

While she watched, one of them approached her with tree loppers. Her eyes widened and her lips clamped shut as he slid the blades around her arm, just above her vortex manipulator. The loppers snicked shut and nerve endings burned. But they'd miscalculated.

She was no longer tied down by her left wrist.

She wrenched herself into sitting position, breaking the restraint on her right wrist with the additional leverage. Before her assailants could blink, she had her Beretta out and fired off three rounds. Three heads with three holes, now three bodies. She thumbed the safety on and dropped the gun between her legs, fingers scrabbling at the restraints on her ankles. She had to get out. If there were three, there would be more, likely on the perimeter to ensure no one else got the loot. They'd have heard the noise. It wasn't exactly a quiet gun.

Feet free, she stuffed her 9mm into her pocket and reached for her other hand, tied to the table. Too late. She could hear the thunder of approaching footsteps. She'd have to get out before they blocked the entrance. She bolted.

Shots scorched the door frame as she barrelled out and into another bandit. She dropped her shoulder and hit him square in the chest, knocking him from his feet and out of her way. Unintelligible cries and shouts rose up behind her as she put as much room between herself and her pursuers. They'd found the others, then. Her hand went to her pocket and, finding nothing, she chanced a look over her shoulder.

Her damn Beretta was in the hands of a kid, and he was pointing it at her retreating back like he knew what he was doing. His look of triumph gave way to confusion as it didn't fire. She smirked and whipped her head back, focussing on escape, away, as far away as she could. Some of the others were already running after her.

As she ran, she fumbled with her belt buckle. She'd done on-the-fly tourniquets enough times to know what to do. Made sure every belt she got would work as one, and made the additional holes herself. She'd never done one while running full tilt, and it was proving to be awkward. Another bullet skipped past her, grazing her hip. Her left elbow bent, allowing her just enough purchase to yank the belt tight and clip it on. That would have to do for now, any further down and the leather would slick up and fall off.

Blood coated fingers dipped once more into her pocket, pulled out a silver bead no bigger than her thumbnail. She pushed it into her mouth, stomach clenched at the thought of it getting lost in the sands, and bit down on it. The bunker exploded, the shockwave yanked at her feet but she managed to stay running. The angry yells turned to screams and howls.

Still, they pursued her. They were young and fresh where she was old and tired and slowly bleeding out.

Her toe caught in the sand and she fell, rolled, used her momentum to launch herself back to her feet. Sand scoured the meat of the stump and flicked into her eyes. Trickled down the back of her shirt to grind into her skin, accumulate in the filth. Teeth clenched, she pushed on, down a slight incline and onto the plains.

The shouts were getting closer. The bolts and bullets whipped past with greater accuracy. Her boots crunched the desolate soil. The nauseating thought that _this was it_ sank into her gut. There was no escape. Even if she managed to get away from these bandits, she'd blown up her vortex manipulator. Her only way out. The chances of scrounging parts for a new one on this rock was negligible.

She stopped. Dug her heels into the sand and spun, arms at her sides and chest heaving. She drew her lips back in a parody of a smile, a feral snarl, and screamed her frustration at the oncoming marauders. The child with the Beretta, _her _Beretta, stopped and raised his arms, sited her down the length of the pistol, his own lips contorted into a sneer. Such an ugly expression for one so young. He squeezed the trigger.

Time

stopped.

Liquid gold poured down her synapses, danced across her basal ganglia, dripped down her aorta. Fire licked at her kidneys, squeezed down her femoral arteries, tickled each toe in turn. Her eyes breathed light and glory and all things that had been, would be, could be, and could not be.

The 9mm burst into a shower of glitter as time restarted.

"_**Who is afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?**_" she howled, and the brigands fell to their knees in the sand. Her eyes flashed. She took two steps towards them and disappeared, but her voice echoed back across the sands of time. "_**You should be.**_"

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I'm not overly pleased with this chapter, but it had to come out somehow. I suspect I'm just about to be hit in the face with assignments, so this may be the last chapter for a little while!

This is for all who reviewed (I LOVE YOU GUYS!), and for those who put this fic on the watchlist. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, as I certainly am!

Rated M for swearing, violence, and Jack.

I don't own anything. Not a thing. I would love to, though. And if I did, it would all be so different.

This is fresh-off-my-brain and un-beta'd.

* * *

We'll be raising our hands, shining up to the sky  
'Cause we got the fire, fire, fire  
Yeah we got the fire, fire, fire

And we're gonna let it burn

* * *

Consciousness came behind a freezing drop of water trickling down her ear canal. She was lying face down in a layer of powdered snow. The bare few millimetres of fuzz on her head did nothing to insulate her from the accumulating flakes and the stump of flesh burned with the excruciating cold that promised numbness. Her breath came out in jagged puffs. She needed to move.

She raised her head, slowly, carefully, just enough to glimpse the world above the snow. It was night, and she was in a town square. A deserted town square. She used her good arm to leverage herself further upright, casting her eyes around, searching the darkness for zeppelins, street signs, decorative statues, anything to give her a clue as to her wherabouts.

It wasn't until she heard boots crunching the the snow and turned around that she saw the fountain monument. _Cardiff_. And there was a man running at her.

She pushed herself upright, frigid muscles screaming their complaint, turned, and ran.

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It was a cold and dreary night in Torchwood Cardiff, with all gone home save for Jack. Sleep was an escape he could rarely achieve, nor did he particularly need it. It had its benefits. It had its draw backs. One of its benefits was near constant monitoring of the rift. The drawbacks, however … well, he always had a bit too much time to _think_.

He kicked his heels up on his desk and took a slurp of his stand-the-spoon-up thick coffee. The syrupy caffeine goodness coated his throat and warmed him from the inside out. It was bloody cold out there, barely warmer inside. But still more interesting than spending Christmas eve alone. Here, he had the company of clutter, of work stations, of familiar paths walked by familiar feet. There was comfort in the silence here.

A flash of light from the monitors connected to the plaza cameras raised the hairs on the back of his neck. His eyes locked on a figure lying spread-eagled in the snow. A figure which certainly hadn't been there before. With the grainy footage it was impossible to tell who it was, or could be, but if they'd arrived with that sudden flash, he'd bet his perky backside it wasn't human.

With a grace only associated with far too much practice, Jack Harkness holstered his handgun, unclipped his slightly larger, much more alien-unfriendly gun from under his desk, and slipped on his military coat. He tapped a button on his way past Tosh's keyboard and raced to hop onto the concrete platform. It rose, slowly and majestically, passing by Myfanwy as he (she? It? they had never really had the time or inclination to sex the pterodactyl) graced the stagnant air of the bunker.

The concrete slab snicked into place and, for a moment, Jack stood there. The humanoid had lifted its head, facing away from him in the dark, and was glancing around. A shoulder bunched and it raised itself up further, shorn head turning this way and that. In the dimly lit square, he could just make out the shape of a sharp cheekbone and sweeping brows.

His heart skipped a beat, scanned the body with his eyes, feet taking an unintended step forward and off the slab. There was the dip of the waist, curve of the hip, shadowing of a pert bum... His heart took another tumble when he caught sight of her face in profile. Stomach tightening – it couldn't be, she's _dead_ – he took off running.

Her head whipped around to the sound of his feet hitting snow and concrete and in one glorious moment he _knew_. She was _alive_ and she was _there_ and she was _glorious_. The corners of his lips spread in a maddened grin. The smile faltered and fell as she shoved herself to her feet, left arm tucked against her side, and ran. Not towards him.

"ROSE!" he bellowed and she stopped on a dime, arms pinwheeling out to keep her balance. Her body twisted awkwardly to look at him, eyes glittering in the darkness. "ROSE!" he cried again, throwing his arms wide as she turned her body fully, his face split in a grin. It _was_ her, it was _really_ her!

She took a step back, away from him, and the grin dropped away.

"Jack," she said, holding out her hand to grab his. "We have to get out of here!" she turned and pulled him with her with an unexpected strength. This close, he could see her arms were bare to the elements, her left arm curled tightly about her abdomen.

He stumbled after her for a moment. "Rosie, what?" When she continued, he his weight to his heels and tugged her. "Why? What happened to you?" Her breathing hitched.

"You don't know what they'll do to me, Jack, you don't know what they'll do to _you_ if they find you, if they find out about you." Her voice was raspy, from disuse, cold or fear, he wasn't entirely sure which. A mixture of all three. "We've got to get out of here and we've got to do it _now_." His fingers tightened around her hand. He picked up the pace to match her stride. Anything that pursued Rose would be dealt with, _after_ she was safe. Getting her out of there and away from whatever had her scared was his first priority.

"Who will, Rosie? Who?"

"Torchwood!" she gasped. His stomach plummeted. He slowed his feet, gently pulling the frightened girl from her headlong dash _away_ from sanctuary. Slowed his feet until they were stopped, and she had turned to look at him, head cocked in that achingly familiar manner.

"Rosie, do you trust me?" he asked. She swallowed and nodded. "They won't hurt you. Not Cardiff." She shook her head and pulled her hand away from his, but his other shot out to grab her wrist. "Please, Rosie, there's a doctor in there, a good one."

"No doctors," she hissed, jerking her wrist in his grip.

"Rosie, you need to be tended to," he said carefully, soothingly. She was coiled, read to bolt.

"No." Her eyes glittered dangerously.

"Then come back to base so that I can tend to you," he implored, running his other hand up her arm to her shoulder, gently resting there.

"No, they'll run tests, and I'll be a _lab rat_ all over again," she snarled, twitching away from him.

"Rosie, _I am Torchwood Cardiff_, and anyone who so much as touches you without your full permission will be_ terminated_," he snarled in reply. Her eyes shifted, appraising him in a new light, assessing him. It put him off balance.

"Give me your gun," she said, straightening her back. A frisson of trepidation crept up his spine and pooled into his stomach.

"No," he replied, angling his body to move the holstered weapons further away from her. Her eyes didn't move from his face.

"Worth a try." There was a tiny crinkle in the corner of her mouth which _may_ have been something akin to a smile.

"Will you come? You must be freezing out here, and I can promise you some _excellent_ tea," he cajoled, rubbing his hand back down her arm, noticing the goosebumps and fine tremors. This time, she nodded, and he reeled her in to the circle of his arms, holding her tight to him. "God, Rosie, I thought you were _dead_," he breathed into her scalp. Her right arm crept under his jacket and pressed hard against his ribs, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. She mumbled something into his chest.

She was properly shaking now, poor child. He broke the hug and shucked his jacket, draping it carefully around her shoulders. She hissed and curled her arm in to her body, away from the fabric, but still hunched her shoulders into the warmth. He wrapped his arm around her back and shoulders and guided her to the concrete elevator. With his free hand he pulled out his phone and fired off a quick 'get here, bring Owen' to Ianto. Thank God for small mercies, and Ianto was a big one.

Even in the poor lighting, Jack could make out the deep circles around sunken eyes, lips that were so chapped they'd split, and grime encrusting nearly every visible bit of skin. He tightened his arm around his shoulders and guided her to the platform, holding her as it began to descend.

It was disconcerting the way her eyes flitted about as they descended, cataloguing everything. She was scanning the bunker with the same attention to strategic points and exits that he had done. He was starting to get an idea of what might have happened to her in the six months since her 'death' at the Battle of Canary's Wharf, and none of it was pleasant. Why she hadn't contacted him, however, was a mystery.

The platform completed its descent.

In the stark lighting, the difference between the girl he had kissed goodbye on Satellite 5 and the woman that stood next to him was staggering. If he had seen her in full light, he wasn't sure he'd have identified her. She was gaunt and grimy, a closely cropped fuzz of hair clinging to her scalp around sand, dirt, and partly healed lacerations. Her skin was dark under the grot that covered it. But her _eyes_, they burned with an intensity he'd never seen in her before.

They flicked over the case with the hand, His hand, and her body drooped. Decades, centuries of sadness crept up her neck, reaching tendrils into her eyes, and she dropped her head. She _knew_ what it was, without explanation.

Things weren't adding up.

He steered her towards his desk, deposited her in his own chair and pulled another chair up to face her. The coat clung to her shoulders but gaped about her stomach. One hand drooped over the chair's arms, the other arm slung over her abdomen.

"Rosie, what happened to you?" Jack rasped, reaching a hand to touch her left bicep, well above the leather tourniquet. She blinked and looked down at the stump.

"Stupid mistake," she replied, glancing away dispassionately.

"Rose, your _arm is missing_, that's not a stupid mistake," Jack cried.

"It was the result of a stupid mistake. I'm doing my best _not_ to think about it right now because God-fuck-damnit it _hurts_," she growled. Jack's mouth clamped shut so quickly his teeth clicked. He'd never actually heard Rose swear. Never, in all their travels. Oh, she'd said some interesting things that were meant in _place_ of expletives, but never outright swore.

The clattering of feet descending had Rose jerking up from the chair, coat falling away as she moved with a speed he did _not_ expect. Her hand twitched in the direction of his holstered gun and her eyes flicked to his face. He stood rigid, careful not to move in case he triggered her. Triggered _what_, exactly, he wasn't sure of at all. Slowly, unwinding each muscle as she did, Rose came to stand by Jack, dropping the letter opener back on the desk.

He hadn't even seen her grab it.

The footsteps stopped as the owners came into sight. Jack moved so his body obscured their view of her, his back facing them and her eyes peering over his shoulder. She could keep them in her sights while he kept her in his.

"Ianto, put the gun down," he said. Safety was clicked back in place and the rustle of the gun being placed back into the halter had him relaxing ever so slightly. "Rose, I'd like you to meet two members of my team. Ianto Jones, and our doctor, Owen Harper." He took one step back towards his team and angled himself away from her.

Rose, for all her wariness – _God, child, what have they done?_ – appeared willing to keep things civil. She nodded briskly, once, eyes flitting over the new entrants.

"Ianto, Owen, this is Rose Tyler, she and I are old friends," Jack continued. He didn't miss the subtle flinch around her eyes at her name. Her last name.

"I want them disarmed," she said. Jack nodded, beckoned to Ianto to hand over his gun. The frown on the man's face must be something fierce by now. "And the one on your back." Jack's eyebrows went up, but a very small Kahr, not even 10 cm in length, joined the other in his hand. He hadn't even known about it.

"Now that we've finished posturing, what the hell have you called me out of bed on _Christmas eve_ for?" Owen demanded. Jack stepped away completely, no longer shielding the two parties from one another. Owen's jaw sagged. Ianto grimaced.

"It was cut off with hedge loppers," she explained. He wasn't entirely sure if she was lying or not. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. Owen dropped straight into his doctor self, bustling down the way to grasp her bicep and raise the wound to view it. "And I fell over in some sand."

"Come with me please, Ms Tyler," Owen said, left hand holding her arm above her head, right hand placed on her shoulder to guide her into the infirmary. Jack took her hand and followed after her, a puzzled Ianto bringing up the rear.

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